


Words of Good Cheer

by Maidenjedi



Category: The Americans (TV 2013)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maidenjedi/pseuds/Maidenjedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>American traditions, American children, an American family.  Christmas for the Jennings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words of Good Cheer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueteak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/gifts).



Elizabeth relished winter in Washington. She wore her long sleeves and buttoned-up wool coat, her gloves, a warm scarf, and her eyes would shine with something akin to nostalgia. There was no doubt, she thrived in cold, her cheeks ruddy and her senses alive. It made her forget for a time the relentless humidity in Washington's summers, the clinging heat, the stink of sweat and swamp. 

But American winter did have a severe drawback, one that she had been, so far, able to ignore. Their training had included plenty of information on the American celebration of Christmas, a holiday that had not existed in her lifetime back home. They were trained to expect rank consumerism, taught the sugary lyrics to popular music associated with the holiday. Like everything else, Elizabeth had memorized it until she could recite it. "Merry Christmas," she could say, through unclenched teeth and a wide smile, to perfect strangers who insisted on greeting her with it. And that was enough, more than enough, for the faithful Soviet that lay beneath a painted American veneer.

\---

She sat in the car in the pick-up line at Paige's school, happy to turn off the heater and crack the windows to get a bit of the cold in her lungs, to savor it. It wasn't the bitter cold of her childhood, just a pleasant winter breeze and hard sunshine. Through the window, she heard the shouts of children excited to be let out for two whole weeks, breaking free. She watched as dozens of little girls came out the door decked in green and red, the boys in a similar state of dress. And then her Paige, in a plain navy blue sweater and, to Elizabeth’s eyes, a too-short skirt, and socks pulled up over her scabbed knees. It was immodest at best, but she was only six years old, and it was the fashion. Almost.

Paige ran up to the car, waving a construction paper creation in the air like a flag. "Look what we made in school, Mommy! Look!"

The paper bore Paige's rendering of a reindeer, pasted-on Popsicle sticks and felt cut-outs. It was innocent, so unassuming. It was a _reindeer_ , symbolizing nothing at all. 

The red sequins representing a nose caught the scant winter sun and flashed at Elizabeth, and she thought, no, there is no innocence here. _They know what it is they do_.

It was the first of many times, so many times, when Elizabeth would bite down on a cutting remark about the capitalists ruining her child's mind, spoiling her into believing Christmas was more than another day on the calendar.

Paige babbled on as she climbed into the car. "And Molly Herrington had on a green velvet sash, Mommy. It was so pretty!"

"Paige, put on your seat belt."

"And Molly says her mommy put snowflakes all over their tree, and they have lights outside, Mommy, and presents are already under the tree...."

Elizabeth focused on driving, the carpool line in front of her backed up as children said their goodbyes for the break, parents indulging them for a moment before having to take all that energy home, unable to escape until after the new year. It was an absurd practice, to Elizabeth’s eyes, to let children laze about while being showered with gifts and sentiment. She felt proud that she and Philip had not succumbed to this.

Paige’s cheerful voice finally broke her mother’s reverie.

"Mommy, why don't we have a Christmas tree?"

\---

Well, why don't we, Philip had echoed, after the kids were asleep. Elizabeth pretended not to hear him, scrubbing the last of the grease from the pan that held her poor imitation of American meatloaf. She despised putting her hands into that mixture of egg and hamburger, and she despised putting her hands on it again to obliterate the traces from her scratched pans.

_Why don't we have a Christmas tree?_

_Because we're not like them. Because we are just pretending._

_We are not here to assimilate. We are here to destroy everything they believe in._

_Because that's what they would do in our shoes. It is what they are doing._

She said none of that aloud. "Paige must have heard about it in school."

"It was more than that. Her friend Melissa has one, and her friend Molly, the teacher put one in the classroom...."

"We should find a different school, then."

"Honey...."

"Elizabeth." She brooked no opposition on this score. Philip shrugged.

"This is the American way. This is what they do. If the children are going to grow up here...."

Of course they were going to grow up here. The war was not over, it wasn’t likely to end soon at all. Elizabeth and Philip Jennings were Americans and so were their children.

"So we do battle for their minds as we do battle everywhere else. We can’t give in at every turn."

Philip sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. This fight was getting old, and they were only a few months into Paige’s career at school. The Pledge of Allegiance, fireworks on the Fourth of July. Halloween, though Elizabeth had won that one, would come back to haunt them next year when Paige cared even more what her classmates thought of her. Thanksgiving. 

“If they are going to be American, they have to _be American_. No compromises. They don’t know anything else.”

They could not.

It was Elizabeth’s turn to sigh, and she cringed at the vision of an American Christmas tree, at the idea of buying into conspicuous consumption at a whole new level. What other principles would she compromise before this was over?

She shut off the water and reached for a towel. Philip had one at the ready, and she felt a familiar prick of annoyance that he was able to see her needs and fill them, however small. She did not thank him.

“Did you not celebrate Christmas…back home?”

She shut her eyes. “We’re not supposed to discuss this,” she whispered, her annoyance spilling into a simmering anger. “You aren’t supposed to ask me. Don’t ask me.”

He pressed on. “We did. Sometimes, when I was a child. My mother made _sochivo_ and she let me choose the berries, when there were any to be had.”

Elizabeth opened her eyes, but did not look at Philip. She could remember _sochivo_ , once, when she was so small. She thought about it now, the taste of porridge with spices, raisins. She thought of her mother’s voice, the way she said they must not speak of this, and to enjoy the taste. _“I do not know if we will have it again.”_

They never did.

Elizabeth looked at Philip, her husband, this stranger in her home. She wanted to ask him, what else did they do? What did it mean, to celebrate such a holiday, as a Russian? 

Philip smiled at her, tentative. The house was quiet with the children in bed, and moonlight shone through their kitchen window. He reached out a hand to touch hers, but even that gesture caused Elizabeth’s nostalgia to crumble, her resolve as an officer in the Soviet intelligence community to strengthen. 

She pulled back her hand away from him, and clenched her fist against her side.

“If we must do this, for the cause, we will. I will. I’ll learn the words to ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ and buy Paige a Christmas sweater. But we will not, ever, speak of what was. Or wasn’t. We are who we are now, and don’t you ever ask me, or tell me, anything like that again.”

She walked out of the room, as calm and collected as if nothing had passed between them.

Philip stood in the kitchen, and leaned over the sink to stare out the window at the moon. His mother’s voice intruded now, as devout in her practices as Elizabeth’s mother had been covert – not that either of them were aware of that. Philip’s mother prayed and asked for blessings, for an awakening. 

He could hear, even now, what she would think. Speaking her disappointment that the world had not changed.

\----

They went out the next day for a tree, and a box of shiny red ornaments to hang on its branches. Henry and Paige laughed while Philip helped them hang the ornaments, and while he strung multi-colored lights around the tree. 

Elizabeth hung back, and baked cookies to distract her as Paige taught Henry the words to “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas.” Even that, Elizabeth thought, proved that the Americans could win after all. Cookies for no reason at all, silly songs being sung on a morning when they could be working. The world was all wrong.

But she could do this, for now. 

One day, it would change.

\----

On Christmas morning, there were only a couple of gifts for each of the children, for Elizabeth had not been able to give in completely and Philip had conceded. A sweater for Paige, new blue jeans for Henry. A doll with her own party outfit for Paige, and a truck for Henry. Candy for their stockings.

It seemed to be enough as the kids exclaimed over their gifts on this first Christmas they had known. Until Philip pulled out a small wrapped box from behind the tree and handed it to Elizabeth.

She frowned and corrected it as quickly as it appeared. The kids were watching her. This was a marriage. Of course they were to exchange gifts, though she had nothing for Philip. He was watching her now, eyes eager, a smile on his face. “Open it, Elizabeth.”

“Yeah, open it, Mommy!” echoed Paige.

Elizabeth complied, peeling back the paper slowly. She opened the box, and inside lay a red scarf, made of cashmere. It was soft and light, and the color was rich and bright. She knew it would look wonderful on her. She felt tears threaten and she looked up at Philip.

He nodded slightly. “I know you like scarves, and I thought you could use a new one.”

“I helped pick it out!” shouted Paige, and Henry said, “Me too!” 

Elizabeth reached out for Paige’s hand and pulled her in for a hug. Henry ran over and jumped on them. “Merry Christmas, Mommy!”

She swallowed hard, and returned the sentiment. “Merry Christmas.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Sochivo" is a traditional Russian dish served on Christmas Eve. It's not a particularly modern tradition but one that I think Philip and Elizabeth might have known at least peripherally (and their mothers would have been at least familiar with it from their own childhoods). I described it as porridge to simplify it, but this is what it really is: http://www.ruscuisine.com/recipes/breads-and-pastry/n--309/. The title is from "Carol of the Bells," which is Ukrainian in origin, and of course the Ukraine was part of the Soviet Empire.
> 
>  _С Рождеством_! (Merry Christmas!)


End file.
